


Grapes Grown Underground

by Her_Madjesty



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drinking, Drinking in Inappropriate Settings, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, Platonic Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 14:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13273812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: Wading through international arrivals, Dmitry thinks, is, in fact, a bitch.





	Grapes Grown Underground

**Author's Note:**

> Look at that pretentious ass title. Don't worry, folks; this is my attempt to be lighthearted and to incorporate some of my own visit to London into a fanfiction. Inspired by the Anastasia discord and [this picture](https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/359764024839372801/390626393420988427/tumblr_p0x5cuyJlh1vnxasgo1_1280.jpg?width=407&height=407).
> 
> Credit to vampyrekat for Vadim and Veronika.

Wading through international arrivals, Dmitry thinks, is, in fact, a bitch. He runs a hand through his hair and tries not to grimace at the cling of sweat sticking his bangs together. The line shuffles forward, and he does his best not to bump into a clump of equally exhausted American students, their accents one burst of many in the too-crowded room. When he finally reaches the cells full of well-intended employees, Dmitry flashes his worker’s visa and is released, blessedly, into the off-white halls of Heathrow Airport.

The broad windows reflect back his tired slump, the world beyond them too dark for Dmitry to parse. His flight from St. Petersburg had been delayed twice due to snow storms, and the bag of peanuts he’d been offered on the plane had done little to stifle the grumbling of his stomach. Dmitry glances at his watch and tries not to swear as he gathers his luggage. Three am – he might get four, five hours of sleep before Vadim and Veronika would be expecting him at the Russian Embassy. Dmitry chuckles, a sorry sound, and presses a hand to his sweat-stained brow; having contacts in the political world might put him ahead of the rest of the freelancing rat race, but the hours were _shit_.

He wanders down Heathrow’s slanted halls and into the near-empty Underground, following the signs overhead that point him towards the Tube proper. The advertisements that pass him on every side are as tall as he is, bright and glowing as they suggest a musical, a product, a weekend in Bath.

Dmitry tugs at the sleeves of his drab, gray jacket and fights back a shudder at a sudden burst of cold. It takes him longer than he’d like to remember that there’s little to no one around to see him, and even if someone did, it's not like they'd care about the state of his outfit. Still, Dmitry catches himself fiddling with his hair and has to force his hands into his pockets.

Heathrow’s halls spit him out into a white-bleached tunnel sprinkled with ticket kiosks. Dmitry blinks at the flashing English and, for a moment, has to resist the urge to cry. He glances past the kiosks and onto one of the platforms, exhaustion blurring his vision and turning the few figures there into a wavering mess.

“Excuse me,” he calls, wincing at his own accent. Ahead of him, one of the many unfocused figures turns his way. Her gray hair hangs down to her waist, and she’s flushed with the suggestion of comfort.

“Excuse me,” Dmitry says again. “I’m trying to get to St. Pancras, and I don’t know which line to take.”

It’s not quite a request for help, he realizes, but it’s as close as he’s willing to get.

“Is this your first time in England, dear?” the woman asks. She turns to face him, and Dmitry forces himself to smile through a burst of regret. “I’ve lived in London off and on for the past thirty years, myself. Such a drab city, but there’s something compelling at the heart of it.”

“I’ll admit, I wouldn’t know,” Dmitry says, shrugging.

When the woman – who introduces herself as Theresa – beams at him, he settles in for a long chat.

She stays with him as he purchases his ticket for the Piccadilly's third line, six pounds disappearing into the unmanned kiosk. She follows him onto his proper platform, as well, idly patting his luggage as she discusses three years spent in Australia working as a receptionist at the Sydney Opera House.

Were it not so late, and he not so tired, Dmitry knows he would find her fascinating. Instead, he is swamped by a sense of relief when the platform beneath him begins to rumble.

“Ah, here we are,” Theresa says as the train winds into view, its yellow headlights filling up the darkness. “There’ll be a map just above your head, sweetheart; count the stops, and listen to the conductor, and you’ll be at St. Pancras in no time.”

“Thank you for your assistance.” Despite his exhaustion, Dmitry offers her a nod and his best approximation of a warm smile. Theresa waves him away as he boards the train, wandering, he assumes, back to her appropriate platform.

(The headache she’d left him promises to keep him awake until he reaches his stop, at least.)

Dmitry doesn’t hesitate before stepping onto the train, though pulling his luggage after him - and listening to an accented, neutral voice warn him to “mind the gap” - proves irritating. The wheels, when they stick, rattle the whole of the car, and Dmitry has to fight down a flush as he yanks the thing into the car proper. He falls into the nearest seat and tucks his luggage between his legs just as the train lurches forward. A brief glance around the train car reveals three other passengers, all of them studiously looking in any other direction than his.

Dmitry brings a hand up to his temple and presses, hard.

The headache doesn’t offer him any quarter.

Dmitry presses into the warmth of his gloves, anyway, and lets his eyes slip closed.

The distance between Hatton Cross and Northfields passes in a delicate rumble, punctuated only by shuddering stops and the croon of the announcer’s voice overhead. When his back begins to ache, Dmitry tries to lean his head back against the window only to find his teeth vibrating. In turn, he presses his cheek against the cool glass and tries to distinguish the housing complexes from the dimness of night. The watch on his wrist moves dutifully towards four in the morning.

It’s not until Hammersmith – the divide between the countryside and London proper – that someone comes to fill the seat beside him. Dmitry lurches out of a dull doze and blinks as a man with salt and pepper hair disregards international travel policy, ignores the plentiful space in the rest of the train car, and situates himself too close to Dmitry’s right arm.

It’s exhaustion, the headache, something, that causes Dmitry to speak without thinking. “Do you fucking need something, comrade?”

The sarcasm seems lost on his new neighbor, who eyes him through a pair of thin glasses before letting out a hearty laugh. “I think you’re the one who needs something, _comrade_ ,” he replies, pressing a hand to his stomach to quell its shiver.

Dmitry blinks at the familiar, albeit softened, Russian accent. He straightens himself in his seat and drags a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he grunts. “It’s been a long day.”

“Mm, you can say that again,” the stranger agrees. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen one of my own in London, though. How did you get out?”

Dmitry opens one eye and lifts an eyebrow. The stranger waits, then allows himself another guffaw. “I joke,” he says. “My name is Vladimir Popov. And who might you be?”

“Dmitry.” Dmitry sticks out a hand, and with no hesitation, Vladimir takes it. “What are you doing in this city, Vladimir?”

“Please, call me Vlad.” Their hands drop, though Dmitry cannot explain the lingering warmth against his palm. “Let’s say that I work as a political aid, shall we?”

The already raised eyebrow creeps a touch higher. “Let’s,” Dmitry agrees. “I’m a journalist, myself.”

“Ah, how romantic,” Vlad says with a sigh. “You’re freer to travel than most of us, I would say.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.” Dmitry glances down at his luggage and grimaces. “Freedom only comes when you’ve got money, friend.”

“Truer words have not been spoken; I concede.” Despite the soft longing in his voice, Vlad lets out another laugh. When Dmitry glances at him again, he’s in motion, turned away for a moment to rustle through the bag at his side.

The announcer above Dmitry’s head calls out the stop at Knightsbridge. In the shift of the car, Dmitry feels something nudge against his left foot. He glances down and spots a bottle, unopened with a slightly dirtied label.

“I was wondering, friend,” Vlad says at his side, “if you wouldn’t mind exchanging phone numbers with me. There are truly so few people here who have any inkling of home, and I’d like to stay in touch, if you wouldn’t mind – you look the sort of man who understands this strange kind of homesickness.”

“Perhaps,” Dmitry allows. He bends at the waist and takes the bottle in hand. The wine is unfamiliar, but it’s a white – crisp and sweet, if the label is anything to go by.

Vlad stops fiddling with his phone, for a moment, and squints at the bottle. “Lucky it’s not broken,” he says. “Some poor soul will be missing that, at this hour.”

Dmitry’s stomach rumbles. He picks at the label, then shakes off his glove to slip his nail beneath the damp paper. Vlad watches, silent, as he meticulously peels it away.

“Well,” Dmitry says, at last, “their loss.” He glances down the car, then offers Vlad a sidelong smirk as he twists the top off of the bottle. He doesn’t hesitate before taking a long pull, though he nearly gags at the rush of sugar saturating the wine.

It’s a bad idea. He doesn’t care.

The drink lingers on his lips as he lowers the bottle; he wipes it off with the back of his free hand. It takes a moment, but the headache still lingering in his temples dulls, just a little.

Dmitry pauses, then offers the bottle to Vlad.

Vlad blinks.

“It’s not vodka,” Dmitry says, after a beat, “but I figure we can subvert that stereotype now and then, can’t we?”

It’s a bad joke, but Vlad chuckles, anyway. His fingers brush against Dmitry’s as he takes the bottle in hand. “I don’t know,” he says, eying the bottle’s long neck, “but after a day like today, any alcohol will do.”

Dmitry watches as he takes a long swig, his adam’s apple bobbing with every sip. When Vlad smacks his lips, satisfied, he presses his cellphone into Dmitry’s waiting hand.

“Put in your number,” Vlad rumbles. Above the both of them, the announcer calls out the coming stop at Covent Garden.

Dmitry doesn’t say a word, just lets his fingers dance over Vlad’s keypad. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Vlad take another drink.

When Dmitry’s finished, he receives the bottle for his troubles.

They pass the wine back and forth for the few minutes that remain between Covent Garden and St. Pancras Station. By the time they arrive, there’s a pleasant buzz brewing in the center of Dmitry’s forehead that he doesn’t want to spare much thought for. He gathers up his luggage as the train comes to a halt and, after a beat, presses what remains of the wine into Vlad’s waiting hands.

“Thank you,” he says, offering the man a smile that hurts at the edges.

“No need to thank me, friend,” Vlad chides. He reaches up and pats Dmitry on the arm. “You were the one who shared first.”

Dmitry laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll see you around, Vlad,” he says, making his way off of the train.

“Счастли́во, Dmitry,” Vlad replies. “I hope we will see each other again soon.”

He stumbles as he makes his way off of the train, but Dmitry decides to blame his clumsy footwork on the wine. Before he has a chance to turn around and answer, the doors to the Picadilly Line slide shut. Dmitry turns, anyway, and in the dim light of the station watches Vlad, lit up around the edges, glide away, his eyes closed and his mouth turned up in a smile.

Dmitry stares until the lights of the train flash into darkness.

St. Pancras Station prompts him to take its stairs two at a time, and Dmitry goes until his head breaks free of the concrete and tastes London’s crisp, near-morning air. He breathes deep through his nose and lets the puff of white dance up into the sky.

It takes him a moment to realize that the last dregs of his headache have left him.

(He attributes this to the wine, as well, instead of to a stranger’s broad smiles.)

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! I know Dmitry's a bit of a grumpy chucklehead, but you would be, too, if you were jetlagged and on business ;) XOXO


End file.
